The First Mountain Man (27 page)

12

Preacher lay in his warm blankets but did not return to sleep. He figured that in about twenty minutes, someone would yell that someone else was lost, and he'd have to get up anyway.

“George Wilson is lost!” came the shout, just reaching the campgrounds.

“Oh, hell!” Preacher said, throwing back his blankets. “I knowed it.”

“Paul Davis is alone and lost in the wilderness!” another mover shouted.

“Naturally,” Dupre said, standing up and putting on his hat. He nudged Beartooth in the rear end with the toe of his moccasin. “Get up, lard-butt. The rescuers and the searchers done got theyselves lost in the woods.”

“Well, why don't they just sit down on the ground and wait 'til mornin'?” Beartooth grumbled.

Jim stuck his pistols behind his sash. “No, they got to go blunderin' around in the timber in the dead of night lookin' for a fool who's probably five mile gone from here by now.”

“Oh, hush up and come on,” Preacher said. “Them folks'll be shore enough lost if we don't go in there and take 'em by the hand and lead 'em out like lost children in the wilderness. I wish to hell they'd all stayed to home.”

“Caleb Potter is lost in the woods!” a man shouted.

“Everybody just stay where the hell you is!” Preacher shouted the words into the night. “Just sit down on the ground and wait for us to find you and fetch you back. Good God Almighty!”

“You don't have to be rude,” a woman told him.

“Oh . . . hush up, woman!”

“Well!” she said indignantly, and flounced away.

It took the mountain men hours to round up all the movers and lead them back to the wagon train. Some of the men were badly shaken by the night's events. Even to men accustomed to the woods, getting lost in the deep timber at night can be a shattering experience.

“Here's Winston's tracks,” Jim called, kneeling down. “He's token straight out north and he ain't lookin' back.”

“I wouldn't neither,” Preacher said. “All he's got in that numb mind of his is puttin' distance between himself and the wagon train. Is everybody accounted for?”

“Far as I know,” Dupre said. “Seems like these folks would know that things look different at night.”

“Most of these folks come from towns and cities. You notice that the farmers amongst 'em didn't get lost. Come on, I want some coffee.”

The train stayed put for another day, until Nighthawk returned from his scouting. The Crow swung down from the saddle and handed the reins to a boy. He walked to the fire and poured a cup of coffee.

“We're in for it, all right,” he finally spoke. “Looks like every renegade west of the Little Missouri has gathered up there in the Blues.”

Nighthawk was not known to exaggerate, and that placed him as a rarity among mountain men.

“That many, Hawk?” Preacher asked.

“I would say about one hundred and fifty Indians—many tribes represented—and probably fifty or more white and half-breed or quarter-breed outlaws.”

Beartooth whistled softly and shook his shaggy mane. “Lord, have mercy. I've heard worser news, but I can't rightly recall where or when it was. Where in the
hell
did Bum come up with that many whites?”

“Lots of ol' boys come driftin' out here over the past couple of years, wantin' to be trappers and such,” Preacher said. “I reckon lots of them was wanted for some crime back in the organized country. They soon found out that trappin' these mountains was damn hard work. It was easier to find they own kind and go back to stealin'.” Preacher smiled and the others, including several movers and Swift, noticed it.

“You find placing our women and children in danger amusing?” one mover asked.

“I find it plumb ignorant that you brung 'em out here to begin with,” Preacher said, pouring a tin cup brim-full of hot, black, and very strong trail coffee. “But you did, and they're here. So that's beside the point. Red Hand and Bum, they don't like me very much. Red Hand, well, he hates whites. All whites. He hates Bum Kelley, too, but he'll work with him 'cause one's just as sorry as the other. It'd be grand for Red Hand if he could take my hair. He'd be a big man. Same for Hawk here, and Beartooth and Dupre and Jim. This showdown's been comin' for years.”

“And you're looking forward to it?”

“You might say that. I ain't lookin' to get my hair tooken. But when somebody just keeps a-proddin' at me, I sorta get my hackles up and start to thinkin' about ways to prod back. Y'all better understand this now: they gonna be hittin' us all the way to the blue waters. They really gonna hit us in the Blues, probably on the Powder. They want your womenfolk, and they covet your possessions. I heared them trash I kilt back aways talkin' about seizin' the girls, ten, eleven, twelve year old, and sellin' 'em to slavers. So you folks talk and make up your minds that they just might be a lot of killin' from here on out. Get your stomachs set for it. Break out your molds and lead and start makin' balls. You gonna need 'em,” he added grimly.

* * *

They spent another day and night in camp, the movers melting lead and casting balls for their weapons. A new spirit seemed to overcome the movers, and the mountain men could sense it. The settlers had come far, and no band of wild renegade Indians and white trash was going to stop them—not this close to their final destination.

“When the train pulls out in the mornin',” Preacher said to Beartooth, “I want you and Dupre and Hawk to guide them through. I'll be doin' a little pre-ambulatin' about on my own. This is gettin' right personal to me now.”

“Sounds like you gonna be havin' fun whilst the rest of us is left behind,” Beartooth said.

“I am gonna make life some miserable for them trash north of us. I'm gonna roar like a grizzly, howl like a wolf, and snarl like a mad puma.”

“Wagh!” Dupre slapped his knee. “Them doin's shine mighty right with me, Preacher. You talk about ol' Mark Head bein' rash; what do you call one man goin' up agin two hundred or better?”

“I call it takin' the fight to 'em,” he replied, with a twinkle in his eyes. “Preacher-style!”

* * *

Melody and Penelope, with Richard and Edmond in tow, stopped by the camp of the mountain men just as dusk was settling. It was obvious they wanted to talk to Preacher by the way they kept looking around and fidgeting like kids.

“T'ain't here,” Beartooth told them. “He left out hours ago. He'll meet us on the Powder.”

“Whatever in the world makes him do something that brash?” Penelope asked.

“He go count coup,” Nighthawk said with a grunt and a hidden twinkle in his obsidian eyes that only his friends knew was there. “Take plenty scalps. Hang on horse's mane. Impress pretty girls.”

“I happen to know that you can speak perfect English, Nighthawk,” Richard said. “And you can read and write and do sums. You were raised and educated in a white home. Now will you stop grunting like a heathen and speak properly?”

“No,” the Crow said. “Like talk this way. Talk like white man make tongue tired.”

“Oh, for pity's sake!” the missionary said. “I give up.”

“Good,” Nighthawk said.

“Why has Preacher gone away into hostile territory?” Edmond asked.

“He just told you,” Dupre said, jerking a thumb toward Nighthawk. “Can't you hear good?”

Edmond drew himself erect and in a very condescending tone, said, “My good man, I will have you know that my auditory faculties are excellent, I assure you.”

“Your
what?
” Jim asked, pausing in the lifting of coffee cup to mouth and staring at the man.

“My hearing!”

“Why didn't you say so? Preacher's gone to hay-rass Bum and Red Hand's people.”

“Alone?” Melody gasped.

“No,” Beartooth said. “Course he ain't alone. He's got his hoss with him. Damn, woman, you didn't think he'd
walk
up yonder, does you?

“I meant—”

“I know what you meant,” Beartooth cut her off before she got started.

“Don't you worry none about Preacher, Missy,” Dupre said. “Preacher's an ol' lone wolf. He's at his best operatin' by hisself. He'll be all right, missy.”

“But . . .” Melody protested.

“He
likes
it, ma'am,” Jim said. “Preacher's part grizzly, part wolf, part puma, and part rattlesnake. And he's mean when he's riled up. Lord have mercy, Missy, but he's mean. He ain't gonna cut them folks up yonder no slack when he goes on the warpath. He's the best they is, ma'am. I ain't never seen nobody that'd even come close to Preacher in the wilderness. You hear all sorts of talk about Carson and Bridger and Johnson and Brown and Simpson. And the talk is true for the most part. But them's explorers and guides and so-called adventurers and trappers and the like. Preacher's all of them things, too, but what counts most is he's a
warrior.
After Preacher gets done with his slippin' around up yonder and his throat cuttin', they's gonna be some, white and Injun alike, that's gonna pull out. They ain't gonna want no more of Preacher. You'll see, ma'am. All of you. Right about now, Preacher is gettin' ready to make war. And when he starts, it's gonna be right nasty.”

Dupre nodded his head in agreement. “Shore is. I'd give my possibles sack full to be there, too. Hee, hee, hee,” he chuckled. “Ol' Preacher gonna be sneakin' up on some right about now. They gonna be pourin' a cup of coffee, feelin' all safe and snug and the last thing they ever gonna know is how a knife blade feels cuttin' they throat. Hee, hee, hee.”

Melody shuddered.

* * *

Preacher lowered the Indian to the cool earth. The dead renegade had him a right nice war axe, so Preacher took that. Standing in the darkness, he hefted the tomahawk. Had a dandy feel to it. Later on, he'd see how it was for throwin'. He wiped his blade clean on the dead buck's shirt and slipped silently on, moving closer to the dancing flame of the small campfire that was placed close to a boulder. He could see another buck sitting close to the flames, roasting him a hunk of meat.

The smell of that meat cooking got Preacher's mouth to salivating. Bear, it was. He could tell that even from this distance. And it was just about ready for gnawin' on. He worked his way closer to the fire and stood quiet for a time, moving only his eyes. These two, the one lying dead in the timber and this one sitting by the fire, were supposed to be the forward lookouts, Preacher figured. He felt he was still a couple of miles from the main party of outlaws and renegades.

Damn, but he was hungry.

He judged the distance, hefted the war axe another time or two, and let it fly.

The head of the axe caught the buck lower than Preacher had intended—striking and embedding in the Injun's neck—but it was righteous throw. The head drove deep, severing jugular and destroying voice box, and the Injun fell over, kicking and jerking, but dying.

Preacher hoped he wouldn't kick too hard and cause the meat to fall into the fire. The brave tried to get up, but it was all for naught. His blood poured out, weakening him, and he finally jerked his last and lay still.

Preacher moved quickly. He scalped the buck and mutilated the body, just like he'd done with the renegade in the woods, then grabbed up the meat and slipped back into the timber. He'd left Hammer picketed deep in the timber, with good graze and a bit of water so's he wouldn't get restless.

Preacher squatted down about a mile from the now-still and bloody camp and ate the bear. Preacher silently apologized to the bear for its death, then complimented it for being right tasty.

“Ay-eee!” he heard the faint shout, and knew that the bodies had been discovered. He smiled. Now the fun was really going to get good.

They'd be coming at him hard, now, with vengeance on their minds. He'd mutilated those two pretty bad, and to make matters worse, had killed them at night. That meant, to their tribe, that they'd forever wander the land, unable to attain the great beyond and rest in the land of plenty.

Preacher finished the bear meat and wiped his hands on his buckskins. He wanted to belch but was careful not to. He couldn't afford the noise. There were Injuns out yonder that were just as good in the timber as he was. And they'd be moving toward him at this very moment. He stood up slowly and carefully and listened for several heartbeats.

He now had two war axes, having taken another one from the careless buck by the fire. He carefully shifted locations, moving as silently as death's own hand through the brush and timber. He came to a little fast-moving crick and followed it for a time, working his way north, staying just at the edge of the timber, just inside the Wallowas.

Preacher froze by a huge old tree as his ears picked up a very slight sound on the other side of the crick. He moved his eyes left and right. One brave, and he was a big one, much larger than the average Injun. He made his silent way toward Preacher's location. Sensing the way the Injun moved, Preacher felt he hadn't been spotted. The buck would have tensed slightly if he'd spotted Preacher.

The Injun stopped and stood tall and silent for a time. Sniffing the air, probably, Preacher thought, for an Injun and a non-Injun smell different to those who have trained their blowers to tell the difference.

The brave would have to get a lot closer than he was before Preacher dared make even the slightest motion, for at this distance, the renegade would disappear before Preacher could use knife or axe. He sure didn't want to risk a shot and have the whole damn bunch of them down on him.